


A Light in the Dark

by AvoidingAverage



Series: A Light in the Dark [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22273000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: The world around him went oddly silent--drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears.A lock of familiar brown hair fell onto the table, tied neatly with a string from a lute.  Mouth dry with panic and fingers shaking, Geralt brushed his fingers over the tiny bundle before reaching for the piece of parchment folded beside it.Any hope that the package was some sort of mistake died a quick death at the short message scrawled across the page:Come and play, Butcher--before he can’t.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Light in the Dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603897
Comments: 200
Kudos: 3335





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two days ago I posted my first story for the Witcher fandom and already I am blown away by how wonderful all of you are. I promised that if the first story was received well I'd write another and I have delivered. This story will definitely earn its tags and feature all of my favorite themes.
> 
> In other words, read on my angsty friends and enjoy the ride. :)
> 
> Russian translation available here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8994326  
> Thanks to FatandGay for taking the time to translate this!

In the halls of Kaer Morhen, unwanted boys are twisted into creatures of legend. 

Their bodies are trained and resurrected into being of myth. Built only for the purpose of killing and baptized in the blood of those who would prey on the weak. They pay for these tainted gifts with the most precious thing they had—their innocence. 

It is there that boys defy death itself to become Witchers and accept the hatred of all as their burden to bear. They learn to understand the ways of humans and monsters

At Kaer Morgen, the Witcher children learn who their true enemies are...each other. 

* * *

  
  


“Tell me another one of your stories, Jas.”

Jaskier barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the pretty noblewoman’s attempt at being coy. She was sitting close enough now to drape herself practically in his lap and he’d already redirected a wandering hand away from darker pursuits. 

In another life he would be grateful, eager even, for her attention. It would mean another night in a comfortable bed, enjoying the sins of the flesh with a beautiful woman. Another night of distraction from the only thing his mind seemed capable of fixating on.

Fucking Geralt of Rivia.

Not actually fucking him, of course. (Well sometimes he did think about it, but he hadn’t actually gotten to  _ try _ it.) 

No, all he could think about was the morning he’d awakened to an empty campground and a single set of hoofprints moving hurriedly away from him. No note. No explanation. Just a cold bedroll and the ache of a heart that knew this pain better than any other.

Every bard worth his salt knew heartbreak.

Jaskier could feel the ache of it even months later. It felt like an old injury now, something that flared up like soldiers’ wounds in the wake of a storm. It flared to life at the sight of brown mares moving through the crowd or with the whispers of a monster in the area. For a long time--too long, really-- he had followed those rumors like an addict to his fix and ready to rage against Geralt’s stupid face, only to come up empty. 

The noblewoman shifted against him, a hint of petulance growing in her expression and he forced himself to pay attention to the present. The girl--Cora? Caitlin?--was beginning to pout at the lack of focus and he dragged up a smile from somewhere. It didn’t matter if it actually reached his eyes.

“I can think of much better things to occupy my mouth with, lovely,” he said in a passable purr.

Her eyes flared with interest and he tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted in disgust. He had no reason to feel guilty for finding pleasure where he could. He owed nothing to no one. He was freed of his crush on the Witcher through force now. He was fine. He could do this.

He  _ refused _ to feel guilty when Geralt had left him. Abandoned him on the side of the road like he meant nothing to him.

Because that’s all there was now between them. Nothing.

MaybeCora leaned forward to drag her lips along his jawline, biting stinging kisses into the tendons on his neck. Jaskier shuddered, trying not to think about how many dreams he’d had of bright yellow eyes and a clever mouth growling promises in his ears just like this. Instead of a curl of interest though, all he felt was numb. The distraction wasn’t working.

The party was meant to be the social event of the season for most of Aedirn. It was full of the young, wealthy, and bored members of the upper crust. Food and wine were in abundance and Jaskier was one of many notable bards in attendance. He’d been invited, as always, to tell the tale of the White Wolf for the hundredth time. A perfect torment to pair with the nightmares that waited for him as soon as he closed his eyes. 

Fuck, he needed a drink.

A group of soldiers and minor nobility wandered their way, clearly well into their cups. They laughed loudly at some joke one of them muttered and continued on their way to the buffet. He would have ignored them completely were it not for the fragment of conversation that drifted over the noise of the crowd,

“--creepy things, Witchers. Wish we could just send him on his way with a nice boot up his ass.”

A blonde bearing the mark of an officer snickered, “As soon as the kikimora is dead, he’ll be escorted out of the city soon enough I’ll wager.”

There was a squeak from MaybeCora when Jaskier got to his feet abruptly enough that she nearly fell over. He ignored her as he crossed the distance to latch on to the blonde’s arm and drag him around to face him. The man’s friends made confused warning noises at the sudden movement, but Jaskier ignored them.

“The Witcher. Where did you see him?”

The man frowned at him, glancing back at his friends a little nervously. “What’s it to you, bard? You need more lyrics for your songs?”

Jaskier growled viciously enough to put Geralt to shame. “The Witcher! Pale hair, gold eyes, riding a brown horse--where did you see him?”

“I--I’m not sure. I didn’t see his hair, but he had a brown horse.”

“ _ Tell me where he is. _ ”

* * *

  
  


A lesser man might have been embarrassed at the speed with which Jaskier fled the party. There was nothing dignified about chasing after a man who had already broken his heart once. The broken pieces of it felt like they were rattling in his chest as he raced along the manicured paths leading away from the mansion toward the city. They matched the ragged edges of the memories flashing through his mind to the tune of his panting breaths.

_ The image of Geralt’s smile, quicksilver and bright in the moonlight. Rarer than any gem. _

_ The frown Jaskier liked to claim as his own each time he said or did something that drove the Witcher a little insane. _

_ The warm press of a scarred hand to his cheek to match the hard body moving against him as lips trailed up the column of his throat to swallow the helpless pleas that fell from Jaskier’s tongue like they were candy-- _

“Geralt.” The word was a plea--the last hope of a drowning man within sight of land. 

He skidded around a woman pulling a cart of firewood and into the marketplace. His blue eyes darted around the houses and storefronts like a madman. His lute case was banging against his back with each movement, but he ignored it as he ran like the hounds of hell were at his heels. 

He  _ refused _ to let this chance pass him by. If Geralt was going to avoid him, Jaskier would just have to hunt him down himself. He would force the Witcher to explain himself and then maybe he could finally move on with his life.

He’d thought that—well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought. The Witcher obviously hadn’t felt the same. 

This time, he would get his answers. No matter how much they hurt.

The Boar’s Head Inn was barely more than a shack hanging tenaciously onto a long row of narrow brick buildings. Jaskier might have missed it entirely were he not a man who spent his life wandering to gatherings like this. A few drunken stragglers were leaning haphazardly against the building and toasted him with their drinks when he came closer. Ignoring them, he eyed the tavern and tried to drag his racing heart back under control. The knowledge of what was about to happen felt like it was suffocating.

On the other side of the door was the chance he had been waiting for. Jaskier would go in there on the wings of his righteous fury, grab Geralt by that beautiful silver hair, and force him to listen to the absolutely scathing speech he’d been practising in his head for months now. Jaskier had risked his life again and again for Geralt--the least he could have done was acknowledge the friendship they had. Geralt would  _ not _ be allowed to abandon him like their relationship was meaningless. And Jaskier would  _ definitely _ not beg him to take him back. No sir. A man had to have his standards.

Nerves wild and edgy with anxiety, Jaskier pushed through the warped wooden doors and scanned the dimly lit room within. Just as they had countless times before, his eyes hunted for any sign of broad shoulders bristling with weapons and the scowl Geralt wore like a tattoo. When that brought up nothing but a few men staring morosely into their ale, Jaskier swallowed his frustration and marched over to the bored looking barkeep.

“Good sir,” he began with a rushed sort of flourish, “I am searching for a Witcher. I was told he was drinking in your fine establishment, where is he?”

Each word fed the knot of  _ excitementfearanxietylove _ curling in his gut until Jaskier was fidgeting under the weight of it. The other man grunted without looking interested and gestured to the right. “He’s out back with the horses.”

Jaskier barely paused to thank him before he was scrambling out the door in the direction of the stables. Of course, Geralt would be there. He cared more about Roach than he did any human being--Jaskier included. And that was...well that was just facts, wasn’t it? Jaskier knew he’d always been a pest to the stoic Witcher. It was obviously his mistake to believe they’d moved past their earliest animosities to edge into the realm of friendship and maybe even beyond. 

Despite the way the hurt part of him wanted to cling to the pain he’d felt at being abandoned, Jaskier’s heart—the traitor—still pounded in his chest with excitement with each step he took toward the stables. He felt giddy with it--the air somehow sweeter despite the abysmal location. 

He barely noticed the rickety, leaking walls that barely managed to cut through the chilly fall winds as they swept through the city. A small pile of dirtied hay was piled against the far wall and a few ancient looking planks formed the ‘stalls’ for a tired looking draft horse and a clever eyed brown gelding being rubbed down by a large, muscular man. At the sight of it, Jaskier felt himself wither like a flower in winter. 

The drunk soldier had been wrong. There was no Roach and no Geralt waiting for him here. 

The understanding sank into him like a blow and he released a shuddering breath that was dangerously close to a sob, raking his hands through his hair roughly. Stupid, stupid bard. When will you ever learn?

The noise must have been loud enough to attract the attention of the man with his horse and he turned to face Jaskier with a curious expression. At his neck, a familiar medallion swung free to hang against his white undershirt. Instantly, Jaskier’s hope flared to painful life and he found himself blurting out a question before the Witcher could even speak. 

“Y—you’re a Witcher?”

The warrior arched a brow and Jaskier watched his legs shift into the same defensive posture that Geralt took when meeting a new person. “Aye. Have you a creature you need killed?”

Jaskier shook his head fervently. “Ah, no. No. I’m actually looking for another member of your guild. Do you know Geralt of Rivia?”

He could practically see the hope dangling in the air between them as he breathed the words. 

Something complicated flashed across the Witcher’s face at the name. Too quick for Jaskier to interpret, but he looked at the bard with new interest. “What’s your business with the Butcher?”

How to explain Jaskier’s relationship with Geralt? Friends who kissed one time? Just a bard following his muse despite said muse’s refusals? A pathetic stalker hoping the man he loves felt something too?

“We’re friends,” he settled on, “Good friends. We got separated by the wars and I’ve been searching for him.”

“Friends, hmm?” Something must have clued the man in to Jaskier’s true feelings because he gave a feral sort of smile. “You must be the bard I’ve heard so much about.”

Hope flared, hot and painful, and he was helpless to resist. “You—you’ve heard of me?”

“Oh yes, Geralt speaks of you often.”

Jaskier seized at the information like water for a dying man. He knew his heart was bleeding through his expression but he couldn’t help the tremulous excitement in his voice. “He told you about me?” he whispered, voice pathetically fragile. 

“Everyone knows the story of the Bard and his White Wolf. Your friendship is the stuff of legends—though I always wondered if there was more to that part of the story.”

Jaskier flushed with a mixture of happiness and embarrassment. “Ah, yes. We..uh, we are very close. I’ve been looking for him for a while.”

The Witcher took a step closer, every inch of him a predator that Jaskier barely noticed against the happy shrieks in his mind. 

Geralt talked about him! Maybe he regretted leaving. Maybe it was just another one of those bullshit moments where he was just trying to be noble and keep Jaskier safe. His gorgeous Witcher was always too self-sacrificing for his own good. Now that the danger had passed, he must be looking for Jaskier. The bard would, of course, accept his apology--after sufficient groveling--and return to his position as best friend and companion. 

Except this time with more kissing. Yes, there would definitely need to be more kissing.

“Where did you see him last?” Jaskier asked, blinking in surprise when he realized the Witcher had closed the distance between them. This close, he was painfully aware of how small he was compared to the warrior’s mass. A new anxiety bloomed in his gut and he took an instinctive step back. 

The Witcher smiled and gestured to the east. “He was moving toward Novigrad to the courts there, I believe. If you’d like, you’re welcome to travel with me there?”

Despite common rumors, Jaskier was not a stupid man. No one could survive a life in bars and taverns each night without recognizing the predators that lurked behind pretty smiles and tempting offers. He’d earned enough bruises because of close calls to understand that when someone offered something that seemed too good to be true, it probably was. 

So he smiled his performer’s smile and shook his head. “There’s no need. I, ah, am with a group of performers that are headed that way for the season. I thank you for the offer and the information though, Witcher. Good luck on your hunts.”

Quickly, he turned around to hurry back to his gear. Mentally, his mind was racing with half baked schemes and various paths he could take to reach Geralt as quickly as possible. Maybe he could splurge and buy himself a horse. Wouldn’t that be nice instead of walking beside Roach all the time? Yes, a nice sturdy gelding would make an excellent investment.

It didn’t occur to him to remember the lessons Geralt had taught him while hunting monsters. One should never turn their back on a predator.

He never even saw the blow coming. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started this story thinking I would make a nice, angsty multi-chapter romance and it has quickly gone wild. My plan is to write about five chapters for the first part and a second tale to this series. It will revolve around a blooming head canon about Jaskier and his past.
> 
> Until then, enjoy this angsty chapter curtesy of our favorite Witcher.

Geralt was a man without purpose.

Now that Ciri was safe under Yennefer’s watchful eye and her gifts were being honed to a weapon’s edge, he was finally able to breathe after months of running, fighting, and killing. Kaer Morhen would be safe enough for the Lion Cub of Cintra to sharpen her claws. At the very least, Vesemir would relish the opportunity to kill anyone foolish enough to enter the keep without his permission. 

In just a few days, Geralt would leave to head south to answer the call of a nearby village under threat of a pack of werewolves. Somehow, he isn’t as eager for the change as he expected.

He should be grateful for the chance to return to normalcy. He had missed the simplicity of the open road and the adventures it always promised for a Witcher. There was nothing of political intrigues and drama, just the sharp slice of his blade through the air and the burn of his muscles. He should be happy.

Instead he felt hollow.

Without the distraction of destiny’s pull and Ciri’s terrified need, all he could think about was the ache in his chest and his too-quiet camp. He’d been avoiding thinking of it for months, but there was no hiding from the loss that made sleep impossible to find. 

Geralt stared up at the glittering mass of stars hanging above him and felt nothing at the return of everything he thought he wanted. 

Destiny had been satisfied. Ciri was safe and learning how to harness the power within her. Yennefer, too, had escaped the war unharmed and finally gained the child she had always wanted. Whatever tension that had driven them together had long been satisfied and they were comfortable to continue in their strange variation of friendship. The world was finally safe again and Geralt was free to return to the quiet, if precarious, life he preferred. 

Only now the quiet felt like it was taunting him. It reminded him of everything he’d lost.

Geralt closed his eyes and winced, mind going inexorably back to the night when everything went wrong.

Now, months later, he couldn’t say what had changed between the two men after so many days of travel and nights curled together around a fire. When the flare of annoyance had shifted into fond exasperation. When a few bars of a song full of ridiculous exaggerations made him smile softly into his drink. Perhaps it was the moment he realized that the rapid beating of Jaskier’s heart each time he looked at Geralt had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the matching thrum of  _ want _ that curled in his belly.

He wasn’t even sure who had leaned in first or when the companionable air between them as they settled in for the night went hot and tense. All he knew was the taste of Jaskier’s quiet sigh, the rough silk of dark hair in his fist, and the quiet noises of pleasure that slipped free from a chest trained to sing out. He knew the weight of lean muscle settling against him like 

But most of all, he remembered the moment Geralt realized he was holding the most important thing in his world in his arms.

The thought had made him falter, surprised and terrified all at once.

Jaskier had always been brave in a way that left Geralt breathless and wrong-footed. He threw himself wholeheartedly into whatever he set his mind to as though he had no concept of his own mortality. He’d walked into a tavern full of people mocking him for his song and forced a Witcher to accept his presence like it was his due. He’d never hidden his attraction to Geralt, no matter how often Geralt’s personality and temperament hurt him.

Then he’d dared to kiss him.

And Geralt did what he had never done in the face of any monster’s charge or any blade’s swing--he ran.

It wasn’t meant to last as long as it had, at first. He thought that a few days on his own would be enough to calm his racing thoughts and heart until he could return to Jaskier and decide what to do next. Love and lust were too very different things and Geralt didn’t like the way Jaskier always seemed to blur the lines between the two. Despite his gruff exterior, Geralt had always been somewhat terrified on the bard’s behalf for the way he seemed to put his heart into everything.

And what would happen to that heart if Geralt was never able to love him the same way? How long would it take before Geralt’s short temper made him do or say something that would wipe away Jaskier’s easy smiles and replace them with heartache? Gods, he’d already done that more times than he would ever be able to forgive. Why couldn’t Jaskier see that staying with a Witcher--that  _ loving _ a Witcher--would only destroy him?

How could Geralt ever claim to love the bard when his very presence drew danger like bees to nectar? How could he watch Jaskier slowly age and grow slow against time’s inexorable pull? How long would it take before Geralt watched Jaskier draw his last breath?

The images of the last thought were enough to chase him away from the warmth and happiness of their campfire and into the night. He’d bitten his tongue until it bled to keep himself from looking back to where he knew Jaskier slept on with a soft smile on his face that would disappear when he woke up and realized what Geralt had done. 

How could he ever forgive him?

_ This will keep him alive, _ Geralt told himself.  _ He’d forget his feelings for me soon enough. _

But Geralt would never forget.

He clung to the memories of happy days bickering back and forth as they walked down the road, laughing at whatever ridiculous rhymes the bard concocted. When he stepped into battle against Nilfgaard, he thought of the bright blue of Jaskier’s eyes bleeding to black as he leaned in to close the distance between them. His sword sang with the sound of the bard’s soft snores as he curled against Geralt’s chest, safe with the knowledge that Geralt would never let anyone hurt him. The nights alone were filled with a hellish array of what could have beens and fantasies of a life a Witcher could never have.

A life with Jaskier.

Geralt groaned and stepped away from the high balcony of his rooms at Kaer Morhen, sleep as illusive as it had been when he’d hunted the djinn. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes and tried not to think about the rumors and information Yennefer had taken perverse pleasure in passing along to him.

_ They say your bard was seen dining in Rivia with the lords there. Apparently he’s gaining quite the following. _

_ It looks like he’s heading to the coast for the winter months--I guess he wouldn’t enjoy the cold’s effect on his vocal cords. _

_ Poor little bardling, my spies say he is looking a little worn down after all this time. Losing weight and drinking more. I wonder the cause… _

The last was enough to send Geralt stumbling away from the mage in a mixture of fury and blind panic. He didn’t enjoy the way Yennefer had seen through his unhappy mood to the truth of things. Despite the fact that their romantic relationship had fizzled out nearly as quickly as it had started, the mage was strangely interested in the happiness he’d had and lost with Jaskier. Perhaps she was taking notes on what not to do when she fell in love.

“Glaring at the sky won’t make it change, boy.”

The sound of his mentor’s voice behind him made Geralt sigh and purse his lips. “Hmm.”

“Don’t give me that--I was the one who taught you to brood properly,” Vesemir grumbled as he settled in beside Geralt on the balcony and leaned against the railing with his forearms. “You gonna tell me what’s got you in such a foul mood?”

“Why? So we can braid our hair and tell stories?” Geralt mocked. Vesemir gave him an unimpressed look that usually was a precursor to getting his ass beat in some new and creative way. Geralt let his eyes flick back to the shadowed landscape that he remembered from his childhood. “It’s nothing.”

“So it’s about the bard then.”

Geralt frowned and looked at the older Witcher. “How did you…?”

“Yennefer and I discuss your exploits often.” Vesemir’s lips twitch into what would appear as a smile on a weaker man. “And ‘Toss A Coin to Your Witcher’ is pretty catchy.”

“Hmm.”

Something on Geralt’s face must have washed away the humor in the moment because Vesemir’s face went somber and introspective. “What do you plan to do when you leave here?”

“What you taught me to do.”

“I taught you a lot of things. Not running away when things got tough was one of them.”

The stone of the balcony made a rough noise as Geralt’s hands tightened around it. He stared out into the darkness for a long moment, trying to fight against the emotions that he wasn’t meant to feel anymore. Somehow, that old wive’s tale had never felt more untrue. Finally, Geralt licked his dry lips and kept his voice carefully neutral. 

“It was the right thing to do.”

This time it was Vesemir’s turn to mutter an unimpressed, “Hmm.”

Geralt gritted his teeth and tried not to think about all the things he’d lost to destiny’s call and his own nature. His life felt like a joke to powers outside of his control--tossed between a Child of Surprise and the reality of who and what he was. What he  _ wanted _ hardly ever mattered in the scheme of things.

(What he  _ wanted _ was Jaskier.)

Unsettled now with the reality of how his future would be, Geralt pushed away from the balcony and Vesemir’s too-understanding eyes. He would go down to see Roach, he thought, and let the open derision in human behavior that she usually exuded settle him. Perhaps he could set off earlier than he’d planned and let his mind settle into the rhythm of traveling.

Just as he was walking through the doorway, Vesemir called his name softly and halted his forward movement to look back at his teacher. The old Witcher’s expression was carefully neutral as he watched his pupil. 

“Be careful, Geralt--” Geralt’s initial instinct to sneer at the pithy statement died in his throat when he recognized the darkness in the older man’s eyes, “--You are not the only thing hunting out there.”

A trickle of cold slithered down his back and he turned to face him fully. “What have you heard?”

“Rumors only for now, but enough to worry.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “What rumors? Speak plainly.”

“There have been a few killings that matched his usual patterns,” Vesemir said and raked a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of frustration. “Soren hasn’t checked in for some time.”

“You think he’s--”

“I can’t say for certain--our way of life rarely ends peacefully.”

Mind spinning at the implications of this news, Geralt turned on his heel to stalk down to the stables. His hands itched for a blade as the shadows of his memories prowled at his feet. Echoes of children shouting and the clash of practice swords haunted him with each movement. 

The scar along his ribs burned beneath his skin.

A new, feverish energy pulled him towards the stables and his already packed bags in an abrupt decision. He wasn’t waiting to leave until morning. Ciri and Yennefer would have to forgive him for the lack of goodbyes--after all, he was good at that.

* * *

  
  


A week later saw Geralt breaking another of his promises to himself.

No matter how many times he told himself he was in need of a good night’s sleep and hot food, he knew why he drifted toward the bustling tavern like a moth to flame. Even so, he hesitated for a long moment at the doorway trying to steal himself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Excitement and anxiety at the thought of seeing familiar blue eyes against the dread of the anger and hurt that would inevitably taint them. Still, he was helpless against the pull of seeing Jaskier one last time.

Inside, the room was filled nearly to the brim--far more than he usually tolerated in an eating establishment. His eyes flicked from person to person for any threats, mentally logging each weapon or too-quick gestures. Geralt made his way to the quietest corner he could find and enjoyed the way his scowl sent a few tipsy villagers scattering for friendlier locations. 

The reason for the scowl was the thin, gangly blonde currently plucking out a horrific version of ‘Her Sweet Kiss’. In his hands, a cheap lyre plunked its way through a weak attempt at the melody that had a few patrons wincing. He could imagine Jaskier’s horror as easily as if he were sitting next to him.

_ Can you imagine, Geralt, the utter  _ gall _ of it? Not only has this bastard stolen a truly wondrous account of your horrific choice in sexual partners, he can’t even do it well! I almost want to hurl that lute into the fire and enjoy a bit of silence. The poor thing would probably be grateful to be released his misery. _

Geralt stared into the glass and told himself he deserved this misery.

A throat being cleared nearby dragged him away from the buzz of alcohol and his morose thoughts to a man dressed in simple woolen clothes and watching him curiously. Expecting a request for a hunt, Geralt didn’t bother to do more than flick his eyes up at him.

“What do you want?”

The man swallowed, fiddling with something in his pocket that Geralt couldn’t bring himself to truly care about. Getting run out of town or into a good bar fight would be a nice release of some of his vicious mood.

“You the Butcher of Blaviken?” The title made him tighten his hands around his mug. His growl must have been warning enough because the stranger took a step closer and pulled out a neatly wrapped bundle. He set it on the table in front of Geralt who raised his eyebrows in silent question. “I was ordered to bring this to you.

He turned to leave, but Geralt called after him. “Who sent you?”   
  


The man didn’t pause in his near-frantic pace towards the exit and Geralt felt his curiosity pique. Slowly, he pulled the package closer so he could pull apart the twine and reveal the contents. 

The world around him went oddly silent--drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears.

A lock of familiar brown hair fell onto the table, tied neatly with a string from a lute. Mouth dry with panic and fingers shaking, Geralt brushed his fingers over the tiny bundle before reaching for the piece of parchment folded beside it.

Any hope that the package was some sort of mistake died a quick death at the short message scrawled across the page:

_ Come and play, Butcher--before he can’t. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be told from Jaskier's perspective.
> 
> All of your support has truly blown me away and has my muse working overtime to create stories worth your attention. I can't wait to see what you think about what I have planned! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for some plot tempered with more angst!

Jaskier awoke with a groan.

Instinctively, he began his usual cursing of his past-self’s love of drinking cheap booze until he couldn’t walk straight as his memories trickled slowly into focus. His body felt like he’d been dragged behind a cart for miles and the uncomfortable position of his arms--drawn tight behind his back and pinned in place--wasn’t helping anything. It wasn’t until he began to shift listlessly into a more comfortable position that the rest of his memories came crashing back to life.

Geralt.

The other Witcher.

The blow to his head, now throbbing in time to the beat of his heart.

He tried to think, to use the skills he’d picked up from his travels to his advantage.  _ Don’t let your captors know you’re awake until you want them to, _ a voice supplied sounding suspiciously like Geralt’s deep growl.  _ Calm down. Use your head--people always forget you have one when your mouth is always running. _

Right. No panicking. Just needed to keep his breathing under control and his body limp long enough to use his senses to gather all the information he could while his eyes were still closed. He just needed to stay calm and find a way out of here. Everything would be fine.

“I know you’re awake,” a deep, slightly amused voice rumbled somewhere to his right.

Immediately, Jaskier’s eyes snapped open. He winced at the light and turned it into a passable glare when he found himself looking at the strange Witcher from before. Dark hair was sheered close to his skull and pockmarked with scars and dark, intricate tattoos that trailed down his neck into his shirt. His eyes were a fractured brown with flecks of gold that reminded Jaskier of a mountain cat or some great beast of prey. A familiar sword harness crossed his chest to match the dagger tucked into his belt and countless other weapons no doubt hidden elsewhere. 

Clinging to the years of working under Geralt’s unimpressed visage, Jaskier tucked the panic thundering through his chest out of sight and tried to sneer.

“If you wanted a private concert, you could have asked.” The Witcher didn’t reply, just watched him with the same sharp gaze of a wolf looking upon a fawn. Jaskier tried not to gulp. “What’s this about then? I thought Witchers were more interested in beasts, not bards. I don’t even know who you are.”

At that, the smile dropped away from the Witcher’s face as quickly as lightning in a storm. Jaskier shivered in the wake of it’s passing. The man’s dark eyes looked odd in the panes of what would normally be considered a handsome face were it not for the madness lurking beneath. It wasn’t until the Witcher stood and strolled closer that Jaskier realized what was so wrong with the coffee brown eyes watching him.

They were dead.

There was none of the bright intelligence that turned Geralt’s golden gaze molten. None of the quiet appreciation that bloomed at the sight of sunlight trickling through the branches of a tree or a child laughing as they passed by in a village. Even the quick temper that had soured so many of Jaskier’s interactions with Geralt was missing. It reminded him of the dishes served at the dinner parties and feast of his youth--all the brightly colored fruits and vegetables were never enough to hide the blank, emptiness of the whole fish and carefully crafted birds as centerpieces. A gallery of lost lives for his parent’s pleasure.

“I am called Malek,” the Witcher said magnanimously and prowled closer to peer down at him, “and I have no interest in your ability to string together pithy words and forced rhymes-” Jaskier’s affronted sound was ignored as easily as a child’s protest, “- I care about what follows in your wake.”

Jaskier frowned as his mind pieced together the conversation at the inn with everything that had followed. He thought of the casually dropped references to Geralt that he’d snatched up like the idiot he was. Of course, Geralt hadn’t been wandering about talking about how much he cared for Jaskier. Jaskier could count on one hand the number of times Geralt had ever discussed emotion or even an interest in the bard compared to the overwhelming number of instances where he’d clearly displayed open disdain for traveling with Jaskier.

Shame and embarrassment at his own foolish heart twisted like a blade in his gut.

Gods,  _ why _ couldn’t he just take the hint? Geralt hadn’t wanted him. He’d had every chance in the world to respond to Jaskier’s open interest. Their first--and only--kiss had ended with an empty campsite and months of heartache. Why,  _ why _ , had he ever believed that Geralt might have changed his mind? It must have been painfully easy for the Witcher to see his ridiculous crush and use it against him.

“You want Geralt,” Jaskier said without inflection, eyes on the floor. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the strange Witcher. “Why?”

The Witcher smiled like Jaskier was a prized pupil. “Like you said, I hunt monsters.”

“Geralt isn’t a monster.” 

Even now, even after all that had happened between them, the truth of those words were practically written in his bones. 

The mask of amusement faded to be replaced with a hatred that made Jaskier shiver even if it wasn’t directed at him. “You would defend the Butcher of Blaviken? Even after he broke your heart?”

Jaskier barely restrained the urge to wince at the dig. He knew better than to show weakness in sight of a predator. So he kept his expression as fearless as possible, hiding behind the persona of the implacable bard. As he spoke, his hands picked fitfully at the knots keeping him in place for any signs of weakness.

“Geralt is the best person I’ve ever met. He has dedicated his entire life to saving people from creatures that would harm and torment them. He does not deserve any of the hatred he has received.”

Instantly, he knew he’d made a mistake. The thin veneer of humanity disappeared like smoke beneath the boiling heart of rage in his being. 

Quick as a snake, Malek’s hands wrapped around Jaskier’s throat, cutting off his air with a wheeze. The movement forced the bard’s weight back until the chair was balancing precariously on two legs and he was completely immobile. Jaskier jerked against the ropes holding him, helpless against the attack. Blood thundered in his ears until he could barely think, could barely do anything but blink up at the man and soundlessly snarl. If this was how he would die, he would do it in a way that would’ve made Geralt proud.

_ I’m sorry, Geralt. I should never have kissed you.  _

_ We would have been happier if I hadn’t. _

His mind spun and pounded with the lack of oxygen. The image of Malek blurred with that of the Witcher Jaskier would crave with his last breath--literally. He gasped, what little fight he could muster slowly weakening as the last of the oxygen in his lungs began to burn away.

Just as abruptly, the grip on his neck vanished and Jaskier fell forward, gasping and dry heaving through the pain. 

Malek watched him from a few inches away, that damned, dead-eyed smile back in place. He eyed Jaskier’s violent spasms with a flicker of annoyance. “You have been deceived, bard,” he said finally, “though you’re hardly the first. Despite humanity’s hatred of Witchers, they do cling to the violence they mete out when things go bump in the night.”

Jaskier glared and swallowed painfully. “You’re one of them.”

For a moment, he thought the man might attack him once again, but at the last minute, Malek slowed the gesture to run his finger across Jaskier’s cheek. The barely controlled malevolence in his eyes made ice spread through his veins. He leaned back to tug free the chain and medallion around his neck to swing free between them.

“Because of this, you mean?” Malek asked in a conversational tone. “Oh, you tiny, worthless creature, if only you understood the true battle being waged around you.”

It was madness that lit the man’s dark eyes from within, Jaskier realized. The same kind of madness that allowed cult leaders to drive their followers to death and destruction. Here was the kind of monster that was capable of true violence---unthinking and unending.

“I am not one of those  _ beasts _ anymore than I am like you and your worthless kind. I am something new entirely.”

“I-I don’t understand--”

Malek waved away Jaskier’s raspy voice like an annoying fly. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You, who were so stupid as to fall in love with one of the monsters who hide beneath their human skins?”

A hot flush curled up Jaskier’s neck at the reminder of how foolish he’d been to believe that Geralt would one day love him. Even now, he felt the familiar anger at the insults that were so easily heaped upon the Witcher. He knew what it felt like to be hated for simply existing.

“ _ He is not a monster, _ ” he snarled.

“Foolish boy...you know nothing of monsters. You think because you’ve seen a few drowners and barghest that you understand what sort of darkness lurks in the world?” Malek laughed, the sound like a knife twisting in a gut. “You ignore the truth that is right in front of you despite seeing it firsthand.”

_ Don’t make him angry,  _ Geralt’s voice whispered in his mind and Jaskier tried not to think about how stupid he was to take such comfort in words that would never be said.  _ You have to be careful. _

“And what is that truth?”

“That it is the Witchers that must be hunted to extinction, not the creatures they call monster.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened on a confused noise, “Wha--”

Malek prowled closer like some great cat prowling towards its prey. “They call me the Hunter now, but once I was one of them. Once I believed the lies Vesemir tells to each of the idiotic young boys that are left on his doorstep. I believed that the sacrifice of all that was good and whole in me would be enough to ensure that justice remained in the world.”

“If you’re a Witcher, why would you hunt members of your own guild?”

“Because I finally saw the light,” he said with all the fervor of a sinner before his god. “I began to see the lies for what they truly were...and then I began to hunt.”

Slowly, Malek reached up to the neck of his shirt and pulled it back to reveal at least a dozen of the iconic Witcher medallions strung around his neck. Jaskier’s eyes widened with horror and a sick understanding that made his arms jerk once more against the ropes with the need to escape from this place.

“You-you’ve been hunting Witchers,” he breathed.

Jaskier’s mind boggled at the idea of what sort of power this man must possess to take down a race of practically mythical warriors in combat. Had he tricked them somehow into lowering their guard? Or was there some way to bring a Witcher to their knees through sheer force? He’d seen Geralt bleed more than once, but after traveling with him for so long, he’d developed a belief in the man’s near immortality.

Oh gods, what if Malek went after Geralt next?

“And you want Geralt.”

“Intelligence at least--and here I thought you would continue to disappoint,” Malek praised.

Jaskier looked away, letting his head fall forward until he was staring at the dirty floor. “He won’t come though--I’m just the bard that followed him around even when he begged me not to. He was glad to be rid of me.”

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands! _

“Ah, but you aren’t just a bard, are you? Julian. Alfred. Pankratz.”

He feels Jaskier and all the safety of his silly, sincere, and safe personality draining from him like water from a sink. It slips through his fingers just as easily and the cold of the loss made his voice tremble. His eyes move to Malek in breathless horror.

“How do you know that name?”

Malek smiled, all gleaming teeth and dead eyes. “Unlike Geralt, I had no intention of allowing a strange bard to travel with me, willingly or not, and not know exactly what you are capable of. Hence the ropes.”

“You have the wrong man.”

“Even if your panic wasn’t a dead giveaway, the mark on your chest sealed your fate.” 

Jaskier wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He’d been so careful for so long he’d forgotten the knife's edge of true fear. It had been ten long years since he’d fled from the only family and life he’d ever known. Ten years since bloodied and shaking hands dropped a sword to pick up a scarred and damaged lute. He’d thought he could be better than the murderer his father tried to create. 

He was wrong. 

“Ah, Dandelion. You didn’t quite manage to blow into the winds, did you?”

He flinched, anger sparking. “Don’t call me that.”

The Witcher leaned forward, eager as any predator with a wounded prey. “Why not? It’s the truth.”

Jaskier twitched against his bonds fitfully, his hands nearly aching for a weapon. “Julian Pankratz is dead.”

“That is the rumor,” Malek replied slyly, “but you can imagine how excited your family was to find out that wasn’t so.”

Heart in his throat and blood cold, Jaskier relished the icy numbness of the panic that curled through his body. It kept him from feeling the shakes that continued to rock him or the blood of his memories from drowning him. 

He knew the words before the Witcher spoke them, but was helpless to stop the pain they caused. 

“Your brother can’t wait to see you again. He’s missed you so.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jaskier...things are going to get bad before they get better. Next chapter will be from Geralt's perspective.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I look forward to seeing what you think in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some backstory and a peak at soft!baby!Geralt. 
> 
> Quick Note: I am basing most of my depiction of how people become Witchers on some online research (which is pretty limited) and my own imagination. I do not proclaim to be a Witcher expert so expect this story to feature of few of head canons incorporated with canon material. I try my best to make it logical, as factual as possible, and always entertaining.

Roach was furious with him.

If he wasn’t running on a pendulum of pure panic and icy numbness, he might be able to gather up the energy to worry about what sort of revenge she would enact. It had been two days since he’d gotten the--the  _ package _ and he’d been running ever since. 

He could handle a few swift kicks or nips from Roach. He could  _ not _ handle the thought of what Malek could do to Jaskier.

The exhaustion from his headlong rush back north drove even his fortified constitution to its limits. As it was, he had considered more than once leaving the overtired mare with some innkeeper along the way and continuing with a fresh horse. Each day had been a cycle of eating while riding and only sleeping long enough for Roach to recover some of her energy before they were off again.  _ And it still wasn’t fast enough. _

Geralt knew better than anyone just what kind of violence a Witcher like Malek was capable of. That, paired with the rumors of Witchers gone missing on simple hunts or in crowded inns was enough to have all of them on their guard. He thought of Vesemir’s warning in Kaer Morhen and added Soren to the list of the dead mentally. Malek’s hatred of their kind had evolved into a truly mad explosion of violence.

The thought of what that kind of hatred could do to someone like Jaskier made Geralt’s stomach twist in knots.

Every time he closed his eyes, Jaskier was waiting. Eye big and hurt even as he tried desperately to pretend like he hadn’t been wounded by the poison that dripped out of his mouth. He’d been such an easy target after the furious barbs and easy dismissal of Yennefer. For all his bluster and quick words, Jaskier’s heart was always in every gesture and rhyme. 

It didn’t take even his limited imagination to concoct an image of what someone like Malek could do to someone like the little bard.

Now the memory of the wounds he’d caused was overlaid with a bloody trail of Malek’s vengeance mapped out on an innocent body. Every hour it took Geralt to reach the location scrawled at the bottom of that--that  _ note _ was another lifetime of abuse that the former Witcher could rain down on him. Whatever humanity Malek had once possessed had been burned away by the near rabid obsession to kill those he felt responsible for the deaths of others.

And no one sowed more death than a Witcher.

_ Not Jaskier, _ Geralt swore silently to the chilly morning air and the sounds of Roach’s footsteps, _ he can have the world, but not Jaskier.  _

He tried not to think about what he would do if he arrived too late to Malek’s location.

He failed.

* * *

_ The sound of crying was easily muffled by the thin pillow and blanket that had been handed to him by the man--Vesemir--when he’d arrive at Kaer Morhen.  _ _   
  
_

_ It did nothing to soothe the ache of being abandoned. _

_ That wound felt like a raw hole in the center of his chest. No amount of training or stories of brave Witchers would ever change that. Each breath was a reminder that time continued to move forward, but she didn’t come. She still wasn’t coming.  _

_ He wondered how long it would be before it stopped feeling like a knife digging deeper between his ribs, dragging along each nerve, carving a mark into-- _

_ “Geralt?” _

_ The unexpected voice made him jerk upright, hoping fervently that the darkness of his dorm room would be enough to hide his puffy face and red eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his face roughly and stared at the boy standing beside his bed. _

_ “What do you want?” he asked gruffly, trying to pitch his voice lower like Vesemir’s bass rumble. All it did was highlight the way he had to sniffle to clear his nose after crying so long. _

_ The boy tilted his head, looking oddly mature despite their similar ages. His dark eyes tracked over Geralt for a beat before his mouth flattened and he gestured to the door. “Come on.” _

_ “Why? Where are we going?” _

_ He didn’t respond, just continued padding toward the door and the hallway beyond. For a beat, Geralt just watched him before he finally gave a mental shrug and followed in his wake. Anything was better than another night feeling miserable and alone. A few minutes later, he found himself standing behind the other boy staring out into the dimly lit mountains beyond feeling breathless against the glittering expanse of stars above him. _

_ The silence between them felt more comfortable than anything he’d experienced since arriving at the mountain fortress. It helped ease some of the tension in his shoulders and he let out a long breath. _

_ “It gets better,” the boy said after a while,”...eventually. You never forget though.” _

_ Geralt said nothing--his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth to form the words that should be said. _

_ The other boy didn’t seem to mind the silence--just nodded like he’d decided something. “I’m Malek.” _

* * *

_ The clang of swords slamming into one another was like a lightning crash against the thunder of boot clad feet shifting over the pressed earth of the practice ring. _

_ Geralt let his head fall back in a laugh as Malek shot him a quicksilver grin and followed easily into a smooth parry. The two of them danced across the arena in a complicated back and forth that had sweat dripping down their exposed chests. They moved like mirrored images of one another--Geralt’s brown hair curling in the heat around his face and matching Malek’s midnight strands. _

_ “Enough!” Vesemir shouted from the edge of the practice ring and both men slid to a stop at the sound of their trainer’s voice. “You’ve got chores. Get to them.” _

_ Chests heaving, they watched the old Witcher walk away from the ring in the direction of the fortress. They glanced at one another with obvious reluctance and shifted their grip on their weapons. _

_ “Again?” Malek asked with a smirk. _

_ Geralt’s smile was answer enough. _

* * *

_ “One day, we’re going to change the world,” Malek whispered against the quiet of the end of a long day. He stared out at the dappled purples and reds of the sunset with a determined look.  _

_ Geralt grunted. “One day, we’re going to be living every sane person’s nightmares.” _

_ “Always so grumpy,” Malek said with a good natured grin and nudged his shoulder with his own. “I know you’re secretly a big softie under there.” _

_ “Hmm.” _

_ Unbothered by his friend’s silent disdain, Malek leaned back on his forearms to stare up at the sky with an unreadable expression. “Tomorrow...tomorrow everything will change.” _

_ Geralt tapped his fist against the other man’s leg in a silent gesture of support. “Not us.” _

_ “No--never us.” _

* * *

  
  


_ No matter how long he lived as a Witcher, Geralt would never forget the screaming. _

_ They echoed out of the testing chambers into the hallways beyond where pale-faced boys were pretending not to be affected by them. They stretched through the distance like the claws of some great beast, sinking deeper and deeper into their minds until it was an effort not to flee from them.  _

_ And still they continued. _

_ The voice on the other side of the door was no longer familiar, no longer warmed by the friendship that had rescued the last bit of humanity from a lonely boy. It was animalistic, unrestrained and breaking with the violence of each endless moment of agony.  _

_ “ _ They’re killing him _ ,” Geralt snarled, pacing like some barely restrained beast outside. His newly enhanced senses did nothing to help keep him calm as Malek’s screams fractured and split into a painful shriek. He turned to glare at Vesemir, standing guard at the door to the inner chambers with a carefully blank expression. “You have to stop this.” _

_ “Malek knew the risks. You all do.” _

_ There was a miniscule pause where Malek sucked in a breath and began anew. The raw pain in each note was enough to raise the hairs on Geralt’s neck. He couldn’t imagine a world where someone could experience so much misery and still survive. His own memories of the process were blessedly numbed by his own pain, but he remembered the worried look in Malek’s eyes when he’d stumbled out of the chamber and nearly collapsed on his friend. _

_ “Stubborn man,” he’d murmured with a fond smile and tugged on the newly silvered hair hanging around Geralt’s face, “you’ve already made yourself go grey.” _

_ That had been hours ago. Hours of building crescendos of agony and helpless cries for mercy. _

_ Geralt knew it shouldn’t have taken this long. He’d checked after his own transition into a full Witcher and the process had only lasted the better part of an hour. Just a series of brutal transformations in body and soul to ensure Kaer Morhen had their perfect weapons. Brutal and eternal.  _

_ But Vesemir’s expression--subtle as it was--told Geralt what he’d feared most--Malek would not survive this final test. _

_ Just the thought was enough to make his fingers clench hard enough into the palms of his hands that he could smell the sharp tang of iron. Malek had been the best of them all. Kind where others turned cruel, clever and unstoppable against the endless tests and trainings Vesemir and others concocted. He’d settled in at Geralt’s side like a calming shadow, ignoring every attempt to shake him and becoming a source of peace and comfort in the following years. They were brothers in everything but blood--and now he was going to lose him. _

_ In the midst of his pacing and worry, the sudden silence was jarring enough that Vesemir’s eyes widened and flicked to the door. Geralt was already moving ahead of him, the heavy wood no match for his enhanced strength and the adrenaline rushing through his body. The mages within put up a half-hearted protest at their arrival, but he brushed them aside to race towards the body lying quietly on the bed. _

_ Were it not for the sluggish heartbeat thudding faintly in his ears, Geralt would have thought him dead. He released a slow breath of relief and reached out to grasp the familiar calluses on the nearest hand. _

_ “Malek?” _

_ Slowly, so slowly, dark lashes lifted to reveal night black pupils that flicked over to Geralt. Whatever relief he might have felt at the sight died a quick death when he took in the lack of expression in the familiar face. It was like staring into the eyes of some doll, lifeless and unmoved by the world around him. _

_ Geralt tightened his fingers around Malek’s hand, unwilling to believe what his senses were telling him. “Malek?” he repeated, cajoling now. _

_ For a beat, they just stared at each other. Then Malek tugged his hand free from Geralt’s hold and let his eyes fall closed once more. _

_ Behind him, Vesemir’s hand settled on his shoulder in a warm weight. “Give him some time, boy. He’s through the worst of it now.” _

_ But as Geralt numbly stood and walked toward the exit, he couldn’t help but wonder if his childhood friend had truly survived. _

* * *

_ Two weeks later, they found the first body. _

* * *

_ Malek disappeared. _

_ Geralt hated the part of him that was grateful for it. _

* * *

The memories of his past that he’d so carefully avoided for years felt like a plague draining the life from him. He wondered if this was his penance for not putting down the monster Malek had long ago. At the time, he’d thought it was mercy that stilled his blade--now he knew it was the fear of a child long abandoned and unwilling to lose the last comfort of his makeshift family.

Thoughts of the man Malek had been were buried under the weight of Geralt’s fear and determination that Jaskier would walk free from their battle. Whatever happened between the two Witchers, Jaskier had to survive. The alternative was unthinkable.

Heart in his throat, he coaxed the last of Roach’s strength and speed into shortening the distance between a small, sleepy town and the abandoned mill he knew was hidden over the next hill. Once, it had been a busy little business for the townsfolk, but the life and laughter once echoed through its walls had long since vanished. A ragged, leaning fence line led him closer and confirmed the fact that no one had dared to rebuild after the den of ghouls had been destroyed. It had been one of Geralt’s first hunts and he still carried the scar along his ribs to remind him.

It was also the last time he’d seen Malek.

He pulled Roach to a stop and quickly pulled the saddle free from her back. He didn’t want to risk her getting tangled or trapped by her tack if he didn’t return to free her. As exhausted as she was, he knew she would linger close to the meadow nearby and graze or sleep away the worst of the travel pains. Her ears flicked back in a subtle acknowledgement of her annoyance with him and he rubbed her forelock in apology.

“If I make it out of this, I’ll make sure you get a honey cake.” The mare seemed to narrow her eyes at him in warning and he smiled faintly, “ _ Several _ honey cakes then.”

Satisfied that she would be safe and resting, Geralt pulled what potions he could use out of his kit and checked the straps on his armor to ensure it was adjusted correctly. The movements were familiar enough to steady the buzzing of his nerves and the voice in his mind that seemed only capable of repeating the bard’s name over and over again. He stared in the direction of the mill as he worked, trying to prepare himself for the battle ahead as quickly as possible. 

Minutes later, he was moving as silently as possible through the dense woods surrounding the old mill to circle the building and scan for any extra soldiers Malek might have recruited. What he found was the Witcher himself lounging in a sunbeam at the entrance to the mill, smiling indolently at Geralt’s approach.

“Hello, Geralt,” Malek purred, “miss me?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malek's history with Geralt kind of hit me in the feels. I love good villain growth. Hope you enjoyed this final chapter before their epic showdown!
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos kick my muse's ass into gear. Thanks for being great.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The big showdown. Get ready for angst, murder, and just enough fluff to heal all your wounds.
> 
> Slight trigger warning: Expect canon-typical violence here. Nothing I would consider truly alarming, but if that ain't your thing, tread lightly.

Malek watched Geralt’s approach with all the indolent interest of a stray cat watching the affairs of humanity. The warmth and kindness that had brought two broken, lonely boys together had vanished long ago, buried beneath Kaer Morhen’s stone with the other failed initiates. Geralt wondered if death would have been a kinder fate for the man Malek had once been. 

But all the mercy and fond memories in the world would not be able to save Malek from Geralt’s wrath if he had harmed Jaskier.

Geralt scanned the small, overgrown clearing outside the mill as he made his way closer for any sign of the bard. He firmly ignored the voices in his head that murmured that Jaskier was probably long dead. That he had probably fallen into the eternal stillness scared and alone and wondering why following in Geralt’s wake had cursed him so.

In spite of the violence brewing between the two Witchers, the woods continued to move around them as it always had. Birds fluttered away from the brush as Geralt stepped close enough to spook them and he could hear the thrum of a nearby beehive churning away. Vines had curled and crept their way into the stones and wood of the old mill until the building appeared to be half eaten by the inevitable glide of nature. 

He scented the air carefully for any trace of Jaskier and ignored the amused curl of Malek’s lips at the subtle gesture. They were each too aware of each other’s habits to miss the tension riding Geralt’s shoulders or the way Malek’s hands remained close to his blades. Finally, Geralt forced the worry and anxiety for his-- _the_ bard to the side so he could focus on the Witcher waiting near the entrance of the mill.

“Where is he?” His voice was little more than a growl after the days of frantic, fast-paced travel and he could feel the drag of exhaustion like the pull of gravity on his limbs.

“No hellos for an old friend?” Malek asked, “You always were more focused than me.”

Geralt growled in warning at the other man’s coquettishness. “This is between us. The bard is innocent.”

At this, some of Malek’s false humor faded. “Is anyone who travels with a Witcher truly innocent?”

It was madness in those dark eyes now. Madness and ruin.

The sight of it frightened Geralt more than any monster’s roar or shriek of some unseen beast. Fear was meant to be an emotion that the trainers of Kaer Morhen chiseled and chipped away from the souls of each of their students with the aid of backbreaking training and a vicious dedication to sharing the truth of what each nightmare they would face was capable of. There was once a time when Geralt would have sworn he no longer knew the icy drag of fear’s nails down his spine. A time when he would have laughed at the very idea of having to clench his hand tighter around his blade to hide the tremor in his limbs.

But that was before Jaskier. Before he knew the pulse of adrenaline that came when the bard wandered uncomfortably close to the edge of sense and sanity in search of fame and inspiration. He found himself following in the man’s wake like a shadow, irate at the realization that he cared more for Jaskier’s mortality than Jaskier. At the time, he’d considered it a burden, a needless extra weight complicating his simple life.

Now he would kill for the chance to hear Jaskier’s muttered rhymes and the crashing of his feet through the grass as he trailed in Geralt’s wake.

“Please,” Geralt rasped, unable to summon up his usual stoicism, “he is a good man. Better than you or I could ever be. He doesn’t deserve to be harmed for your hatred of me. You can’t do this, Mal--”

“ _Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do!_ ” Malek’s voice raised to a roar that sent the trees around them into silence. The pretense of being amused and unaffected died a quick death as Malek pulled his sword free and pointed it at Geralt. “You lost your right to pretend to be a friend of mine when you let them carve their magic into my bones so I could become another one of Kaer Morhen’s dogs.”

“You chose to--”

“There was no choice! They stole us from our families and pretended to care about us until it no longer suited them! They tricked us, don’t you see, Geralt?” Malek asked, face shifting from fury to cajoling in an uncomfortable heartbeat. “They made us think that we would be heroes to humanity, but all we are is another kind of monster.”

“Witchers protect humanity. We do not harm them,” Geralt said, trying to keep his voice calm as he fought the urge to reach for his weapon.

Malek tossed his head back and laughed, the sword in his hand still pointing toward Geralt’s throat. “Is that so, Butcher of Blaviken? Do the humans welcome you into their cities with open arms now that they understand the violence you are capable of?”

Geralt stayed silent, hating the burn of truth in those words.

All his life he’d tried to do what he saw as right. When given the choice between two evils, he chose neither--content to spend his life remaining on the outskirts of society if it meant that he could walk the path he believed to be true. Maybe there was some piece of the abandoned child he’d been who’d hoped that would be enough to earn him a welcome next to a warm hearth occasionally. How long ago had he begun to realize that that dream would never come true?

Malek prowled forward, only a few feet out of reach of Geralt’s sword if he chose to attack. His voice was flat for all the wounds it left in its wake. “They will never love you, Geralt, because nothing you ever do will ever erase the fact that you are a monster.”

Geralt’s fingers twitched around his blade as he gritted his teeth. “Is that why you’ve killed so many of us, Malek?”

“They deserved to die. We all do.”

He shook his head, staring into Malek’s dark eyes with a dull sort of sadness. “They were good men. Men who tried to make the world safer for those who cannot protect themselves.”

The glint of silver in the sunlight was the only warning Geralt got before Malek was slicing through the air, aiming for the soft skin of his belly. He jumped back out of reach, but only barely managed to pull his sword free in time to block the back hand cut. Each attack was delivered with icy precision, the effect of years of practice and hunting making themselves evident in both men. The joyous meeting of blades from their childhood was quickly erased by the bitter struggle to carve out their vengeance through the other’s flesh.

Geralt twisted his sword in a complicated move that Malek parried just as easily. Their hilts locked together, their muscles straining to push the other one into a more vulnerable position.

“They were _monsters_ ,” Malek hissed. “The world is a better place without their shadows darkening the earth.” Metal shrieked as they shifted in another rapid parry and cut. “Imagine how they will cheer when I mount the White Wolf’s head in the city center.”

Geralt let his left hand fall to his belt to reach for the dagger he’d taken to carrying there since his battle with Renfri, but froze mid-motion when a familiar voice called out over the noise of their battle.

“ _Geralt_!”

Jerking in shock and panic at the fear in Jaskier’s voice, Geralt shoved Malek away to put distance between them and scanned the field for the bard. His name fell from his lips almost frantically, “Jaskier! Where are you?”

Malek’s malevolent chuckle was ignored when a quick movement brought Geralt’s eyes to the familiar sight of Jaskier outlined against the darkness of the interior of the mill.

The bard’s fine scarlet tunic was ripped in a jagged line across his chest that revealed flashes of paler skin beneath and highlighted the dark bruises blooming on his face. He stood balanced precariously on a stool that wobbled dangerously with each jerk of his body. Geralt felt his mouth go dry with panic when he traced the line of rope circling the man’s thin neck that was tied in a makeshift noose to the crossbeam. Jaskier’s hands were pinned behind his back and Geralt could see the remains of a gag spat on the ground at his feet. All of the bard’s attention was divided between staring plaintively at the Witcher and trying to keep himself from falling forward and bringing the noose tighter around his neck.

Jaskier’s blue eyes went to Geralt’s with a kind of relief that the Witcher had no right to feel so warmed by. A dizzying mixture of emotions flooded through his mind at the sight of the other man, still alive and mostly unhurt despite being captive for so long. All he could think about was ripping that rope away from Jaskier and pulling the man into his arms where he could be safe.

Geralt started towards him instinctively, but hesitated when Jaskier’s gaze flicked behind him with a look of horror. “Geralt! Watch out!”

He turned, but it was too slow. Silver cut like white fire along his side and into his belly. He was saved from spilling his guts onto the ground only by the leather armor he still wore.

Geralt couldn’t help but think of Vesemir’s first rule for Witchers:

Silver for monsters, steel for humans.

Breathing through the pain, Geralt managed to shove Malek back and pressed his advantage in a blazing rush of attacks. There was none of the testing, teasing maneuvers of their first encounter. Now, all Geralt could think about were the dark circles marring the pale skin of Jaskier’s face and the fear that seemed permanently burned into his eyes. The pain of his wounds were nothing against the pain of realizing that every bit of hurt the bard had felt was his fault.

They moved in a blur of power and speed that emphasized the distinct difficulty of facing someone with the same enhancements that sped Geralt’s blade. It was nothing like the attack of a beast. Their movements were always primal, instinctive against the urge to cause pain and taste the blood pulsing through the body beneath a layer of skin. 

Fighting the mad Witcher was something else entirely. 

Malek knew all of the attacks and blocks of Vesemir’s tutelage and was driven by a vicious need to cause pain before the fight would end. Geralt was forced to rely on the dirty tricks he’d picked up from his years on the road to bridge the gap caused by his exhaustion and the drain of his injury. 

He caught a lucky break when Malek stumbled against a hidden root and pressed his advantage ruthlessly. There was no place for mercy when Jaskier’s life was on the line. 

Geralt twisted his blade roughly and felt the satisfying release when Malek’s blade was ripped free and fell to the earth a few feet away. He held his steel sword against Malek’s heaving neck with grim satisfaction. “Surrender.”

Malek eyed him with a complicated mixture of pride and fury. “You’ve gotten better, Geralt.”

“Stand down or I _will_ kill you,” Geralt snapped.

“Still so predictable though,” the other Witcher sighed, his eyes sly and cruel in a way that settled oddly against handsome features. “You’ve never been good at protecting your weak spots.”

The sword pressed more firmly against Malek’s neck. “Last chance.”

Malek bared his teeth in a smile and threw his hand out in the direction of the mill and Jaskier. Geralt caught the gesture with a sort of dazed panic--too slow to do anything but watch the streak of Witcher magic slam into Jaskier and knock him off the stool so the noose went taut around his neck.

“ _Jaskier_!” he roared, forgetting Malek in the wake of his horrified terror. 

The other Witcher twisted away from the blade at his neck and snatched up his sword from the ground and lunged for Geralt before he could do more than step towards Jaskier’s spasming body. The sting of the knife against his arm was almost a relief against the pain in his soul.

He had failed.

* * *

Jaskier felt the stool shudder beneath his feet like it was happening to someone else entirely. All of his focus remained fixed on the blur of silver hair and flashing golden eyes as the two Witchers met in a clash of steel and silver. Their movements were dizzyingly quick and a brutal reminder of just how much of their humanity had been erased by their abilities.

His wrists tugged uselessly against the rough hemp rope that kept him pinned and helpless in Malek’s trap. He could feel the rope around his neck stretched just tight enough to make breathing slightly painful and movement terrifying. Even so, he could never watch Geralt risk his life so recklessly to save him without wanting to rip himself free and keep Malek far away from his Witcher. 

Just the sight of Geralt marching into the clearing had been enough to send a complicated wave of _excitementfearwantanxiety_ streaking through his veins. He’d redoubled his efforts to spit out the wad of dirty fabric Malek had unceremoniously shoved into his mouth in time to shout a warning that nearly cost Geralt his life.

The relief at finally seeing Geralt again was quickly replaced by mindless panic when he felt Malek’s magic slam into him and knock him free from the stool. 

Instantly, his world became narrowed to the pull of gravity at his neck and the burn of oxygen incapable of reaching his aching lungs. He jerked, toes scrabbling in his boots for some kind of purchase on the dusty earth. His muscles bulged with the effort of trying and failing to break through his bonds and sapped his failing strength like water draining from a pool.

It made him think of the agony of the djinn and Geralt’s wish in a sick sort of familiarity. Helplessness has always tangled at his feet like the roots of the vines choking the stones around him, inescapable, unending. 

Now it will be his undoing.

Somewhere distantly, he could hear Geralt’s voice shouting his name, but it’s meaningless against the agony of tasting air with his mouth but being unable to fill his lungs. He knew his training would allow him to survive longer without his breath, but now that skill feels like a cruel new form of torture. That he’ll be trapped here forever in the endless fire licking through his veins and blacking out his vision.

The ring of steel and silver continued to rage and chase away whatever peace would come with his descent into silence. He could almost hear the tense violence that Geralt released each time he was truly enraged the thought made him smile, there was no way Malek would survive Geralt now

As though in punctuation to the thought, there was a grunt of pain and shock from an unknown voice. The slick slide of metal through flesh worked well against the backdrop of Jaskier’s dimming vision.

The excitement and faith he’d felt at the sight of his Witcher was like a child’s trust in a toy’s ability to chase away the monsters that lurked in the shadows. His mortality was the noose around his neck, tightening inevitably no matter how many times Geralt was forced to save him. It was always meant to end this way--with Jaskier’s vision slowly dimming and Geralt continuing forward against his enemies’ blades. 

A bard’s mortality perfectly balanced against a Witcher’s endless war against those who sought to exploit it.

It was good, at least, he thought that he had this moment with Geralt before he died. He could imagine that the concern on his rugged features hinted at some deeper emotion that could heal the gaping wound in Jaskier’s heart that the Witcher had left behind. He let himself imagine with the last of his breath that Geralt would mourn his passing on occasion and let go of some of the hurt anger that lingered in his heart. He could forgive him. He had never been good at holding a grudge against Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier smiled faintly with the last of his strength, amused even now at the way his heart still clung to the romance of their ruined relationship. It balanced out the practical part of him that knew Geralt would always survive without him--he was the only one unable to live on his own.

Yes, it was better to let it end this way before he was forced to watch Geralt walk away again.

With that in mind, Jaskier let his eyes closed and surrendered to the darkness pulling his spirit into the earth….

  
  
  


Then jerked awake with a ragged gasp when air filled his lungs and the ropes at his neck and wrists were roughly cut away.

Hands pet over his neck and the raw skin of his arms, trying to massage blood into pale limbs while Jaskier coughed and gasped against the agony of being reintroduced to oxygen. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, nearing drowning out the achingly familiar voice above him.

“--gods, I thought you were...Come on, Jaskier, _breathe_. Damnit, you idiotic bard, you’ve got to breathe.”

Only Geralt could manage to insult him while ordering him to survive, Jaskier thought with a hint of a smile. Even that seemed to take a tremendous amount of effort and he let his head loll back against the packed earth of the mill’s floor. He focused on doing as he was told for once in his life, content to listen to Geralt babbling--babbling!--while his lungs remembered how to process oxygen.

Despite his rough words, Geralt’s hands were gentle as they stroked over Jaskier’s body in search of any hidden injuries. Their warmth helped chase away the worst of the chill from his most recent brush with death and he was selfish enough to lean into the touch before Geralt realized he was recovering. Hands roughened by years of swordplay cupped his cheek briefly and it was the familiar drag of sticky liquid that finally caused Jaskier to blink his eyes open against the afternoon sunlight.

Geralt was haloed against the glow of the sun like the bloodied warrior angels of the priests’ tales. His brow was furrowed in worry that eased only slightly when Jaskier blinked again and focused on him.

“Jaskier?”

The bard licked his lips and nodded, his voice raspy as if he’d spent too many nights singing in smoky rooms. “It would seem the latest attempt to rid the earth of my beautiful voice has failed.”

Geralt made a rough noise and, before Jaskier could do more than gape in surprise, curled his arm around the bard’s shoulders so he could yank him upright and kiss him.

It was thanks to years of training under the finest tutors available and the greatest wordsmiths of the era that Jaskier possessed the rapier wit and spectacular skill to formulate the perfect reaction to such an unexpected action.

It went something like:

“Hnnng...wha?”

Geralt’s mouth twitched into one of those half-smiles that sank into Jaskier’s blood like a fine wine. This time when he lowered his mouth to Jaskier’s it was slow, a teasing flirtation that highlighted just how helpless the bard was to his charm. He gave him plenty of time to resist, to argue, to reject his advances, but--as always--Jaskier was helpless as the tide against the pull of Geralt’s moon.

When they pulled away, Jaskier could feel a flush warming his cheeks to match the color darkening the Witcher’s. They stared at each other for a long moment before Jaskier licked his lips, chasing the taste of fire and magic and something uniquely _Geralt_. He didn’t miss the way golden eyes dropped to follow the movement. Or the way he was now basically sitting in the Witcher’s lap.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, “I’ve died, haven’t I? That damned psychotic bastard actually killed me.”

Geralt growled and leaned forward to rest his face where Jaskier’s neck met his shoulder, breathing deeply. He could feel the way the bigger man was trembling slightly from the effort to remain upright after the battle. Jaskier shivered helplessly. 

“You’re still alive,” the Witcher said, “though there was a moment where I began to doubt.”

Jaskier stared at the silver hair at the edge of his vision in astonishment, his hands tentatively reaching to stroke his fingers through it then again when the gesture was met with an approving rumble. Who knew you could tame a Witcher just as you would a stray cat?

He frowned slightly. “Then...that means you came to save me…but” Geralt stiffened slightly at the surprise in his voice, but he continued doggedly. Never let it be said that Jaskier was afraid of hearing the truth, “-but you left. You left me.”

And dammit, he hated himself for the way his voice trembled at the words.

Geralt’s stubbled jaw scraped against the delicate skin of his neck like he was resisting the urge to scent him as he tilted to stare at Jaskier head on. Shame colored his expression in a way Jaskier had never witnessed and he sighed, breath hot.

“I...I have no excuse for what I did,” he began, sounding as if each word had to be ripped free from some deep mooring, “I--I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Jaskier’s voice was soft despite the anxiety twisting in his gut. This moment of unexpected fragility from the Witcher felt as though it would break as easily as the surface of the water against the weight of his words.

“You. You’re just so--” Geralt leaned back and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration before he began again, “I was happy on my own. Not needing anyone and not allowing anyone to need me. I had Roach and I had my mission and that was all I needed. And then you showed up and--and you destroyed all the peace I had achieved.”

Jaskier flinched, curling away until Geralt’s hand curled around his arm in a gentle restraint.

“You showed me how much _more_ there could be. That I could do more than just kill and I began to think about what would happen if I let you change me.”

There was a long moment of silence while Geralt tried to sort through his emotions.

“So why did you leave?” Jaskier asked.

“Because if I found out what it was like to have you, to hold you like you were mine, and then I _lost_ you….I couldn’t survive it.” Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but Geralt shook his head. “I knew my world could never be safe enough for you. Eventually I would be too slow or too late to come for you and you would face the punishment for my own mistakes. And I can’t allow that to happen.”

Blinking back tears--because he _knew_ what would come next--Jaskier nodded slowly and turned his head away to try to hide his emotions. “Right...so you’re only here to send me on my way again.”

Geralt’s hands tightened around Jaskier in a reflexive pull that did nothing to erase the ache in his heart. A calloused finger curled under his chin and tilted his head up until he was forced to stare into bright golden eyes.

“I should tell you that the kiss meant nothing. That it was a fleeting affection that could never be allowed to continue--” Jaskier’s eyes closed and he felt the slow slide of a tear roll down his cheek, “--but I can’t.”

Eyes flying open in surprise, he stared at the Witcher with near painful desperation.

Geralt smiled softly and used his thumb to brush away the tear. He curled around Jaskier like he could shield the smaller man from the world with his body alone. 

“Walking away from you once nearly killed me--I won’t do it again.”

Every bard worth his salt knew the taste of heartbreak, but Jaskier found himself forgetting as Geralt’s head lowered to his to seal his promise with a kiss.

_The End._

* * *

**Epilogue:**

“Let me get my lute,” he called to Geralt before turning back toward the mill. Jaskier tried not to think about the body beginning to cool and grow stiff in the clearing or the way his neck was aching from the noose.

They were free now. He had survived a Witcher’s madness, somehow. 

Geralt had come back for him.

The thought and the memory of the kisses pressed into his skin like they could chase away the pain of the last few days gave him the strength he needed to return to the stone room where he’d been kept waiting for Geralt. It felt oddly empty without Malek’s terrifying pacing and muttered ramblings about monsters, real and imagined. The part of him that felt sympathy for the man was buried for now beneath the exhaustion of days of fear and pain.

His lute was leaning against the simple pack he carried on his journeys as though Malek hadn’t bothered to search through them. The instrument was a welcome weight in his hands and he gave it a fond pat before slipping the strap across his shoulders. His pack came next and he turned slowly in the space for anything useful.

Malek’s meager belongings were spread across a sturdy stone bench across one wall and Jaskier’s curiosity was enough that he drifted closer to inspect them more closely. He flicked open a small leather bag and winced at the sight of several Witcher medallions lying in a bloody mess within. Despite his distaste, he pulled the bag free and added it to his pack. Geralt and Vesemir would probably appreciate the chance to lay what was left of their brethren to rest.

His eyes fell on a simple piece of parchment tucked under a sharp looking dagger and whetstone and he reached out to tug it free.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called from the entrance, his voice a complicated mixture of the emotions Witchers weren’t supposed to possess.

“Ah, just a moment!”

Jaskier cursed under his breath when he knocked over the knife and had to scramble to catch it before it hit the ground. The hilt was uncomfortably familiar in his palm even after all this time and he weighed it carefully for a beat to decide if it was worth bringing with him. Footsteps padding closer--Geralt was either more tired than he’d revealed or was being polite and making noise to warn Jaskier’s human senses of his approach--made him slide it onto his belt before he could second-guess the choice. 

The Witcher appeared in the doorway, his hand pressed against his side where blood still trickled from his wound. “We should leave before nightfall. There is a village nearby where we can get a room and some food if we hurry.”

Jaskier smiled and nodded, his body seemingly helpless against the delight at the thought of traveling with Geralt again. At Geralt actually _choosing_ to stay with him.

“I knew staying indoors was beginning to grow on you,” he crowed, ignoring Geralt’s annoyed grunt. “If I could just convince you to perhaps invest in some nice silks or sturdy leather--”

“Hmm.”

Despite his attempts at remaining stern in the wake of Jaskier’s cheerful ramblings, the bard caught sight of the smile twitching at his lips and felt a curl of warmth bloom in his chest. Geralt moved through the door ahead of him--no doubt returning to wherever Roach was tied--but Jaskier hesitated at the entrance to look at the parchment still clutched in his hand. 

The words--scrawled in a painfully familiar script--tasted like devastation and terror despite their conciseness. He felt the world pull away in a roar of blood that made his hands tremble in a way none of Malek’s threats had ever managed.

_I’ll be there soon._

_\--Kiel_

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was soft with worry as the Witcher turned back to find the bard standing frozen in place.

Jaskier licked his lips and swallowed through the ash in his mouth. It took two tries to find his voice. “Yes, I--I, uh, I’m coming.”

His fingers closed around the parchment in a painful clench that left it crumpled and scarred in his fist. When Geralt turned back to continue along the path, Jaskier let the message fall to the earth and tried not to think about what the future would bring.

He failed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Part I of the Light in the Dark series. The first chapter of the next part will be posted as quickly as possible and will focus on Jaskier's past. Get ready for more angst and a new, badass version of how Jaskier the Bard came to be. I'm really excited to see what you think.
> 
> This story would not have been possible without the tremendous, staggering amount of support I have received from you beautiful readers. I have never written a story so quickly in my life and it was all thanks to your wonderful comments and kudos keeping my muse working overtime. Truly, you have proven to be a wonderful fandom to write for and I am so grateful that you took the time to read my angsty little stories.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and all your support! If you've enjoyed this story, please feel free to check out my other stories for the Witcher fandom. I can't seem to stop writing about these two idiots in love. <3


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